


Election

by iateyourheart



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, High School, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22085116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iateyourheart/pseuds/iateyourheart
Summary: The race for Senior Class President brings the long standing rivalry between Bella Swan and Rosalie Hale to new and interesting levels. AH AU B/R.
Relationships: Rosalie Hale/Bella Swan
Comments: 26
Kudos: 118





	1. they faced each other

**Author's Note:**

> Found some old fic of mine that I never posted here, and thought I would. Thanks for reading.

“What are you gonna do?” She smirks and there’s an annoying, little flip of her hair as she takes a step forward. “Are you gonna hit me?” 

Bella takes a step forward, too, because she is in fact giving serious and deep consideration to rearranging Rosalie’s fucking face. 

* * *

**Two Days Previous**

* * *

“Please don’t freak out…” 

Sometimes Bella likes to amuse herself by thinking about clichéd expressions in the literal sense; it’s a terribly nerdy and sad form of entertainment, but she can be a terribly nerdy and sad person on occasion, and at least she knows better than to insert information such as this into polite conversation with anyone below the age of twenty-five. She chuckles at the thought of there actually being some poor son of a bitch with the job of handing out lemons whenever life takes a turn for the sour. And she’s taken the time to calculate just how much money she’d have if she in fact had a nickel every time she was told “don’t freak out”. 

As of now, the total stands at $1,428,232. 

The rise of “don’t freak out” to becoming the phrase that pays wasn’t an easy one. It waged a bloody war against “Bella the Fella” which reigned supreme for about three months of her fifth grade career (thanks to a salad bowl and her mother’s genius plan to save money on haircuts). Napoleonic battle strategies were drawn and although “Bella the Fella” had the right amount of cruel school children charm behind it, “don’t freak out” had the staying power of several, embarrassingly public tantrums. 

Propensity for an emotional meltdown wasn’t always in Bella Swan’s character description. Though they’ve grown a bit hazy over the years, she possess several pleasant memories of being an easy going, if quiet sort of kid. There were spelling bee losses she shrugged off and hearty hand shakes to the winners after a tee-ball upset. Competition didn’t matter – win or lose you still got to eat Shakey’s Pizza. 

So Bella knows that the hell bent on overachieving robot she’s become –the one that requires every disappointment to be prefaced with “don’t freak out” is completely thanks to _her_ ; and she longs for the days when greasy pizza and a few rounds on an ancient _Mortal Kombat_ arcade machine would’ve been enough to appease. 

“Don’t make me give the speech. It’s way too early for the speech, Bella.” Alice’s fingers drum nervously against the poster board in her hands – the one she refuses to turn around. 

She knows exactly what it is her best friend is working so hard (and so poorly) to hide. It was expected when she threw her hat into the ring for Senior Class President. It had to happen because it was an unwritten law of Bella’s universe, and the absence of Rosalie Hale in her orbit was likely to open up a black hole. 

“No one’s freaking out.” Bella’s voice is clipped and she claws at her bangs. 

“You’re doing that thing with your hair.” Alice pauses, she frowns. “And you’re starting to turn red.” 

“It’s just that…you know, you swore you’d help me with _my_ campaign…”

“I did and I meant it, but Rose asked me to put some posters up. She’s my friend, too, and I know she started that whole ‘ _Bella the Fella_ ’ thing, but that was like what, fifth grade? I love you like a fat kid loves cake, Bells, but you’ve really gotta let that shit go; it’s not good for the soul.” 

Bella wants to remind her of a few choice incidents – like, the _Little Miss Forks_ pageant 2004 (where her costume for the talent portion met an unfortunate scissor related accident), the seventh grade softball tryouts (where her right eye was the target instead of her glove), and the clarinet solo at eighth grade sectionals (where her reed was snapped and the backup disappeared off the face of the earth). The moppet of an embarrassing nickname could be easily spanked, but the other incidents? Those call for bloodshed and Napoleonic battle plans. 

She wants to remind her, but she doesn’t. Because the first half of the speech has already made it out of Alice’s mouth, and she’s right, it is too early for that shit. 

It’s hesitant, but a smile crosses Alice’s thin lips. “We’re still cool?” 

Bella swallows. “Of course.” 

“And you’re still coming over this weekend, right? I’ve got the best of Depp, Grant, and Firth locked and loaded; I swear to God your ovaries are gonna melt.” 

“I can’t wait, Al. Seriously.” 

Bella leaves Alice to her poster taping duties and as she heads toward first period, makes a mental note to take that sharpie out of her locker. 

Replacing “Rosalie” with “Cuntalie” is already set in stone, but she’s having trouble deciding between giving her a handlebar mustache or a goatee.

  
  
  



	2. they drew their swords

Bella’s clawing at her bangs and although it’s impossible to make out in the dim porch lighting, Rosalie knows she’s fifty shades of red. 

She bites her cheek to keep from laughing, because the girl just has  _ no idea _ and brings her face so close that Bella’s breath hits the top of her lip. 

“I don’t think you’ve got the guts, Fella.” 

* * *

**One Day Previous**

* * *

Mike Newton is showcasing his cunnilingous technique on a cupcake of all things. 

He keeps his baby blues trained on her as he works his tongue around chocolate frosting and throws in the odd “mmm” every now and then for maximum pervyness. 

It is, quite possibly, the least sexually arousing sight Rosalie has ever witnessed (and this is including the time Arabian horse porn turned up in her google search results). But he seems so determined to sway and she’s bored enough to allow the embarrassment to go on, so she merely folds her arms across her chest and leans a shoulder onto the lockers. 

It never fails to amuse her, the lengths men go just to turn her head; puberty came hard and fast at the age of twelve and Rose didn’t need a bunch of faceless thirty-five year olds posing as fourteen on yahoo messenger to tell her she was considered desirable (though it did help her ego on a Saturday night). Her legs grew up, her chest grew out, and it became painfully obvious that the boys at school were no longer interested in her kick ball skills, her readiness for such a thing be damned. And for all of the aid to her vanity it provided there was, however, something inherently depressing about the transition from trusted short-stop and Super Smash Bros opponent to masturbatory fantasy. 

  
  


“Man, that tastes so good,” Mike says and the smile on his face is meant to spell out how hard he can make her come, but there’s a glob of blue frosting in the corner of his mouth working against it. “Food of the gods, really.” 

A perfectly arched brow quirks. “Really?”

“Really.” He nods. “So, Rose what do you got for me?” 

Her head tilts curiously to the side before she bends down to retrieve her bag, and Mike Newton looks as if he’s ready to fold in on himself when Rosalie hands him a tissue. 

He laughs – high pitched with just a hint of “I’m going to light myself on fire” – as he wipes his face. “Thanks, uh thank you, but uh what I actually meant by that was, well Bella had the cupcakes, so I was wondering what  _ you’ve _ got to help secure my vote for you.”

“Bella’s handing out cupcakes?” Her interest in this conversation has increased exponentially. 

“Mmmhmm. Right outside the first hall.”

And Rosalie slowly saddles up to him and uses the collar of his shirt to pull Mike closer because with men this is where her power lies. “Well, Mike what I’ve got for you involves  _ your _ dick…”

His grin is ever so hopeful and ever so dopey. Her smile is as pretty as it gets for a snake. 

“…and  _ my  _ blender. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an anywhere else to be.” Rosalie bumps his shoulder on the way past and throws an extra sway in her hips to further add insult to his injury. 

Once upon a time Mike Newton banned her from his eleventh birthday party simply for possessing a vagina and now seven years later, he’s desperate to put his face in it, and that’s what Rosalie finds most disconcerting about the move from just a girl to just a fantasy. She could’ve easily crumbled under the deluge of love letters, and phone numbers, and requests to be “hollered” at for a moment, because it all hit so fast (like the boobs and the legs), and the attention manages to be as terrifying as it is flattering, but she didn’t. And it’s thanks to the consistency of Bella Swan. 

At thirty-five, Aaron Hale found himself completely at the mercy of an existential crisis. His days were measured in paying tolls and trips to the office supply closet. Nature meant the shrubs in front of the strip mall and the next door neighbor’s azalea bush. Roundabouts made blood shoot out of his nose; and if he kept up with suburban life, he was liable to drown himself in a venti non-fat, iced café mocha. So, he read  _ Walden  _ a lot and ultimately came to the decision to move his family from the civilization of Rochester, New York to the middle of bumfuck known as Forks, Washington. 

Rosalie had been practically inconsolable at the thought of a new school, in a new town where all they had to offer was a traffic light and a general store. Not even her mother’s words of comfort (“Your father’s just going through a jackass phase. It happens; we’ll be back in Rochester before you know it”) could ease her, and Rose arrived for her first day at the combined elementary/junior high/high school in the foulest of moods. 

Minutes after walking into Mr. Carter’s fifth grade class she was seated next to a girl with unfortunate hair and an annoyingly cheerful disposition; and although Rose hadn’t necessarily meant to, she couldn’t help taking her rage out on that smiley kid. 

“ _ Hello, Bella the Fella _ .” 

It was bitchy, and wrong, and she totally would’ve apologized – if that girl hadn’t turned  _ so _ red. Like stop sign red – she’d never seen anything like it and it instantly made her feel better. 

“That was a nice touch, defacing my posters,” she says and places her palms on either side of a massive cupcake. 

Bella casually leans back in her chair, feigning puzzlement. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Rose.” 

“ _ Really _ ?”

“Really.” 

Rosalie snickers. “I’ve never seen that style of mustache before, what do you call it?” 

“Fu Manchu,” Bella quickly answers. “I mean, I didn’t touch your posters, but I couldn’t help admiring the handiwork.” She smirks. “I’m a big fan of mustaches.” 

“Later on when you’re at home, all alone listening to Bright Eyes and cutting yourself, I want you to remember this,” eyes narrowed, Rosalie’s voice drops to a dangerously low octave, “I will fucking end you, Bella.” She pauses adding, “And I want this to keep you up at night…”

Rosalie makes sure her tongue is nicely coated with spit and licks the top of four “Vote 4 Swan” cupcakes in rapid succession just to watch Bella turn red. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. and shot each other

Rosalie’s spit sits on top of the, “a” in Swan – a glistening, little pool of DNA and spite. Bella stares at it for fifteen minutes straight; long enough to make her late for third period, long enough to make her eyes slightly cross, long enough to trick her mind into believing it could see her reflection. 

She knows the next sixteen hours will play out like so: Bella will eventually regain feeling in her limbs and she will trudge to Mr. Sutton’s World History class where she will blame her lateness on cyclical women’s troubles because Sutton possess a manliness that requires he wear gym shorts even when not coaching the basketball team. He will frown and refuse to question her further. She will feign attention during the fall of Rome and write a note to Angela,

“ _ Rosalie is a stupid skank _ .”

“ _ …Bella, you know terms like that divide us as women _ .  _ Can’t you just say she’s not a very nice person _ ?”

“ _ Stupid skank has a better ring to it _ ”. 

She will go to lunch and glare at Rosalie from over the top of Lauren Mallory’s head. She will go to fourth period Spanish, feign attention during the conversation practice and write things like _mierda_ _puta_ in the margins to feel better. 

She will stop to give Alice a hug on her way to the science building for fifth period, feign attention during cellular reproduction and fake laugh at Mike Newton’s jokes while that spit pool clings to the forefront of her mind. 

She will take the curve on her way home pushing sixty praying that as per usual for Forks PD, her father and his radar gun is off picking up dead animals on some other part of the highway. 

She will get home, clean the kitchen from top to bottom, rearrange the contents of the pantry to a more alphabetical order, make and eat tuna casserole for dinner, make and eat an additional three cupcakes in memoriam for the fallen, pour over her entire wardrobe for Goodwill donations, read ten chapters of Jane Eyre, text with Alice (“ _ Yeah, she licked them. _ ”, “ _ No, I’m NOT dwelling on it _ ”) and she will finally fall asleep when the sun comes up after a long struggle to stop thinking about Rosalie, her nasty spit, and her nasty face. 

The feeling returns to Bella’s limbs. She tosses the ruined baked goods in the trash and heads down the hall towards sixteen hours in Rosalie Hale’s orbit. 

* * *

**D- Day**

* * *

Alice has always had the ability to get Bella to agree to anything even when life and limb were at great risk. At age four she sweet talked Bella into diving off of the playground monkey bars (resulting in a broken leg), at seven it was riding their bikes down a construction site dirt mound (resulting in a broken arm), and at eleven it was asking Tyler Crowley to the Valentine’s Social (resulting in a broken spirit). This time she’s persuaded Bella to betray her responsible nature and spend the weekend goofing around in the Brandon’s basement instead of reading ahead in her coursework. 

“ _ My parents are going to Vegas for their anniversary, Bells and teenage debauchery just isn’t as fun all by your lonesome. _ ”

Alice’s powers of persuasion lie in her annoyingly infectious enthusiasm for life; the constant ‘Up with People’ attitude, Bella finds, is like a parasite – a tapeworm, that suckers itself to the lower intestine of her inner misanthrope replacing its steady diet of misery and loathing with stardust and sunshine. 

Alice Brandon is like a Gummi Bear. She probably farts rainbows. 

As Bella backs her little, Honda Rebel out of the garage while her best friend gabs on the other end of the phone line, she’s suddenly very thankful that Mr. and Mrs. Brandon decided to ring in their seventeenth with Cirque du Soleil and nickel slots because right now she’s in need of Alice’s sunshine. 

“Bella, Bella, Bella are you ready for a lost weekend at Casa de Brandon?” she chirps excitedly. “I hope so, ‘cause we’re gonna have so much fun! I’ve got this new lipstick I’ve been dying to try out on you, oh and this awesome mini skirt…”

Bella stops dead in her tracks. “ _ What _ ?” 

“Dude, I’m just fucking with you.” Alice laughs. “I’ve got DVDs and an ounce of my Uncle Rodney’s medicinal hydroponic. It’s gonna be good times, trust me.” 

Bella takes the curve on the way to Alice’s pushing sixty. It’s misting rain, but she left the visor on her helmet up anyway, and there’s a pleasant chill from the wind and water whipping at her face – it makes the breath in her lungs stop and start – it gets Bella to concentrate on the feeling of flying instead of on the figure that’s been burning around the edges of her thoughts for the last thirty-one hours, an exercise in mind over she doesn’t matter. 

She’s still floating when she pulls up into the driveway, and Bella’s grinning like an insane-o as she removes her helmet because Alice’s rays extend beyond the walls of the house, and her skin’s tingling from the wind and the rain, and she has a good feeling about everything. 

“That bike is like a pack of gum with wheels.” 

Rosalie is leaning against Alice’s shitty Civic disinterestedly crushing the butt of the cigarette she’d been puffing on with the toe of her boots, and all of the happiness and light whooshes out of Bella at the very sight of her. 

If she clinches her teeth any harder they’ll break. “Fuck you.” 

“Ooh them’s fightin’ words,” she teases. “Are you angry, Bella? What are you gonna do?” She smirks and there’s an annoying little flip of her hair as she takes a step forward. “Are you gonna hit me?”

Bella takes a step forward, too, because she is in fact giving serious and deep consideration to rearranging Rosalie’s fucking face. She’s clawing at her bangs with one hand while making a fist with the other – there’s a snap, a disconnect with her normal rationale – she will not whip out her phone to bitch at Alice for failing to mention Rose’s being a part of the weekend’s festivities, she will not climb back on her bike and head home, and she cannot ignore this girl who is so close at this point that Bella can feel Rose’s breath on the top of her lip. 

“I don’t think you’ve got the guts, Fella.” 

Her hand stings like son of a bitch, the crack from the slap to Rose’s face rings in her ears, her chest is heaving, but Bella suddenly feels happy and light. 

Rosalie’s mouth hangs open and she cups the side of her face. “You hit me?!” she says much more to herself than to Bella.

“You’re goddamn right I did.” 

“…But you’ve  _ never _ hit me…” 

Rosalie is matching her in terms of heaving breaths in a moment that stretches out like an eternity and there’s a frustrated growl before she grabs Bella by the collar to swing her around and against the driver’s side of the car. 

Bella’s back hits hard against the door, the pain forcing her eyes to momentarily screw shut. 

There’s a foreign emotion playing across Rosalie’s features when she says, “You were supposed to be my constant” one that Bella can’t place and lacks time to process because Rose’s lips are on her own with all of the force of a fist to the face. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. but when the smoke cleared

  
  


If Rosalie had her way, nothing would ever change; get rid of the mobility of objects and you effectively eliminate some of the more life-ruining aspects of being, for example those jackass phases of men that make a cross-country move seem like a good idea, or that turn a schoolyard buddy into a sex object. This lack of constants just doesn’t sit well on her mind, so she spends a good, long minute wishing she and Bella could remain stagnant while rooted to the spot on the drive where her feet clumsily came to a stop after their kiss was broken with a shove.

Until today, Bella had been the ultimate constant. As the opponent in this game of push and pull there were only four moves the girl would make: to seethe, to claw at her hair, to turn as red as a stop sign, and to retaliate with calculated, passive aggressive precession. Mobility was for the rest of the world; their relationship thrived on awful consistency and as long as the cycle continued to give off the appearance of never ending, Rosalie didn’t have any reason to question her own motivation. She pushes, Bella pulls, and the answer to “why” is that’s the way it’s always been. 

The break in the rotation allowed just enough room for Rosalie to question and since denial feels better than the truth, and constants are less terrifying than mobility, it takes a minute of stillness in Alice’s driveway not only to process but to resign herself to this fact and she loathes what’s to come, but she can’t stop the momentum (because despite her wishes inevitably everything changes). 

When Rosalie enters Alice’s basement bogged down by the weight of her new perspective, she is met with the quizzical brow of her best friend, and the pointed disregard of her mortal enemy:

“Do I even want to know what happened out there?” Alice asks. 

Bella quickly replies with, “Nothing happened” and Rosalie forgoes a prime spot on the recliner just to plop down next to her on the floor. Alice’s attention is now on rolling the perfect blunt and Rose lets a smile (that would be ever so pretty for a snake) worm its way onto her mouth as she leans in to whisper, “Was it good for you?” in Bella’s ear – because with Bella, malicious teasing is where Rose’s power lies. 

Three re-stuffed vanilla Dutch Masters later, Alice is comfortably curled up on the sofa while Rosalie and Bella have chosen to sprawl out on the floor. Though her eyes determinedly watch the ending of  _ Bridget Jones _ , the film doesn’t have a single ounce of Rosalie’s attention.

There hasn’t been another word or another glance, and perhaps this acute awareness is the fault of all of the things left unsaid between them, but Bella’s presence buzzes and hums next to her; Rosalie swears she can feel it shooting through her gut like they’re bound to each other by some electrical current. She tries to ignore the shock caused by a sigh or a crossing of legs, but she can’t, so her head lolls to the side locking her gaze on a pair of big, brown eyes. 

To Rosalie, a thousand lifetimes have passed by, civilizations have risen and fallen, and whole species evolved or died all in this singular moment where Bella Swan neither turned red nor turned away. In reality it lasts long enough for Mark Darcy to buy Bridget a new diary. 

Her concept of time is  _ way _ off. “I am so fucking high,” Rosalie says and Alice laughs at that statement for ten straight minutes. 

* * *

Alice goes out like a light after devouring the results of a collective, pitiful attempt at blueberry pancakes (the taste of which could only be described as ‘fail-ass, yet delicious’). Head cocked back and mouth wide open, she is blissfully unconscious and drowns out Bette Davis’ fine performance in  _ Now, Voyager  _ with her snoring which wouldn’t have been anything more than a mild annoyance for Bella if Alice had fallen asleep on the air mattress instead of the couch like they’d agreed. 

“Your feet are cold,” Rosalie snickers. 

Bella whips around with a scowl marring her features. “Shut up.” 

“God, are you  _ still _ pissed?” Rose turns away from the TV and props her head up with a hand. “If there’s something on your mind by all means let it out. Only try using your words this time, Bruce Banner.” 

“You  _ kissed _ me,” Bella says in a low hiss. She throws a quick glance over her shoulder as if the persistent buzz saw noise coming from the direction of the couch isn't enough to convince her of Alice's being totally unaware of this conversation.   
  
“You hit me.” Rosalie shrugs.   
  
Bella blinks. ”You do realize that those are two completely unrelated actions, right?”   
  
With the pad of her thumb, Rosalie brushes the slightly puffy spot on Bella's lip where her teeth collided with the skin. Her smile is smug. “Not with the way I kiss.”

“Okay – okay, I get it; this is you trying to psych me out and you know what, Rose? It’s working. On Monday I’ll withdraw from the election, you win again like you always do. I don’t want it bad enough to keep playing this game.” 

Bella doesn’t wait for a reply; she gives Rosalie a nice view of her back and shuts her eyes to stave off tears because seven years of this ridiculous back and forth has begun to take its toll – she’s exhausted and angry, and even though ‘Senior Class President’ was just something she’d hoped to include on her application to Harvard, Bella can’t help feeling disappointed. 

“I don’t care about that stupid election,” Rosalie mumbles. “I wanted to, to fuck with you. I like fucking with you, you know that and you always play along. So if what I’m doing right now is a game to you, Bella, then why aren’t you playing?” 

She hesitates in doing so, but Bella gives in and faces Rosalie once more. Like earlier that night, she’s struck by the vulnerability she finds – she’s come to expect a cool sort of control out of Rose and finding her laid bare is as fascinating as it is disconcerting (and oddly beautiful). Bella knows that right now she could crush Rose completely and totally; she’s dreamt of a moment such as this, a noose securely tied around this girl’s neck where the only move left is to kick the chair, yet now that it’s here, Bella’s chickening out just like she would at the end of a fight on that ancient Mortal Kombat arcade machine at Shaky’s. She doesn’t want to combo with a finishing move. 

She’ll uppercut instead. “Fear,” Bella says as she props her head up with a hand. 

Rosalie visibly swallows. “And what do you have to be afraid of?” 

They’re so close that Rosalie’s breath hits the top of Bella’s lip. “I’m afraid of falling…” her face splits with a smile, “…into your cavernous vagina.”

Rosalie laughs loudly and both sets of eyes immediately shoot towards the couch. Alice continues to snore. 

Her fingers are now pressing into Bella’s hip and Rosalie’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I’ll anchor you,” she says. 

“Really?”

“Really.” 

Their mouths crash together this time with a little less force than a fist to the face and when she’s able to think about anything other than how it feels to have Rosalie nibble at her bottom lip, to have Rosalie’s tongue in her mouth, Bella thinks that maybe the two of them were always supposed to end up here. She thinks, as Rose arches her back to allow Bella to pull off her pajama bottoms, that maybe the last seven years have been one long round of foreplay. 

“What happens on Monday?” Bella asks. She plays with the elastic on Rosalie’s standard issue Victoria’s Secret, pulling it and letting it snap back. 

“Well, Monday we go to school where we’re supposed to learn things; there’s a calculus test I’m doomed to fail and do you want to move your hand a little lower?” Rosalie bites back a frustrated growl. 

_ Snap _ . “Do you wanna give me an acceptable answer?” Bella angles herself in order to take hold of Rosalie’s earlobe with her teeth. 

“I don’t do PDA.” She shudders a breath while Bella, rubs her through her underwear. “Are – are you actually gonna drop out of the election?” 

Rosalie’s widened her legs and Bella’s pulled those lacy, boy short things to the side and Bella’s thinking that this game of theirs may have lost its cruel schoolchildren edge tonight, but it isn’t over. She will never stop being a part of Rosalie Hale’s orbit. 

“Not on your fucking life,” Bella says. 

  
  



	5. they were both left standing

It was two summers ago that Bella dated Edward Cullen. He was a senior and he made her dizzyingly happy in a way that only your first real boyfriend can: he held her hand at football games, he loved four hour phone conversations about everything and nothing (and always insisted she hang up first), and when he took her virginity it was with Sufjan Stevens projecting sensitivity into her ears and drippy candles surrounding the bed (which made it rather hot and therefore more uncomfortable, but Bella made sure to smile prettily and let him mistake the sweat on her cheek for a tear because she totally appreciated the effort). Edward was perfect, in a word, and she may have doodled “Mrs. Isabella Cullen” in several notebooks, but then one day after a particularly trying morning at her job at Newton’s Sporting Goods in which Rosalie stopped by, Bella and her Prince Charming had the following discussion: 

“…You’re joking, right?  _ Please _ tell me you’re joking…”

Bella cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, so you don’t have to egg her car if you don’t want to. I’ll let you do the flour.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Edward laughed shaking his head. “Can I – can I be honest with you? I mean, seriously?”

“Of course you can.” 

“And you swear you won’t get mad?” 

She held out her pinky. “I’ll even cross my heart and hope to die if you want me to.” 

He took a deep breath, raking his hands on his jeans. “You hate Rose, right?” 

“Hate doesn’t even begin to cover it.” 

“So then why are you always giving her what she wants, Bella? She does this shit just to get your attention and you give in every, single time. I dunno, I think if you really wanted her to leave you alone, you’d ignore her.” He shrugged. “In a way it’s like…it’s like you get off on it.” 

When she broke up with him, Bella cited the fact he’d be leaving for college that fall as the reason their love affair had to come to an end. This was only partially true – really it was the implication she possessed anything other than disdain for Rosalie that put the final nail in the coffin.

Now flash forward two years and she’s helping Rosalie climb in her bedroom at 12:15 a.m. on a school night, while silently praying that  _ The Outlaw Josey Wales _ and a six pack of Natural Light will be enough to keep her dad out for the night. She never asks him for much, so she slips in an extra request to Jesus – “ _ may Charlie not notice the window screen is missing before I have a chance to pop it back in. Um, Amen _ .” 

Thank god Edward didn’t make her cross her heart.

Rosalie’s lying on the bed next to Bella, chin resting comfortably on the top of her folded arms, her bare legs pointing up in the air kicking lazily back and forth on occasion; Bella watches her more than the car chases and idiot burglars playing out on True TV. Tonight feels different – it  _ is _ different; the distinct lack of rage and murderous wishes leaves room for awkward stumbling. If neither of them is posturing, then their act is reduced to nervous dicking around (“So…do you wanna watch a movie or something?”/”Have you seen that cat in a box vid on youtube yet? It’s fucking hilarious; Lemme show you”) and it’s just a culmination of the stupid and normal, and not them behavior that’s taken place since that night at Alice’s two weeks ago. 

The dreaded Monday and the days that followed were non events. Bella passed notes with Angela in history, she conjugated verbs in Spanish, she hugged Alice on the way to Biology, she let Mike copy off her lab worksheets, and at lunch she tried not to stare at Rosalie from over the top of Lauren’s head (she failed. repeatedly). A text simply stating “leave your window open” came tonight after all this time of being ignored and if their game is still on, it’s Rosalie’s move. Only now Bella doesn’t know what to anticipate so she had to go and think about Edward Cullen and how he once wrote her a poem using seventeen different adjectives to describe her dull, brown eyes, and how he was a perceptive motherfucker because right now Bella wants to make Rose come with her hand, but she can’t justify that feeling if she doesn’t also want to strangle the girl (it would just be weird otherwise). 

There’s a sigh and Rose shifts her position to give her left arm a break from her chin, and the very innocent act of transversing the gap on a bedspread brings her skin in contact with Bella’s. Bella ignores an urge to hold her hand because that would just be stupid and normal, and not them, instead her eyes bore holes into the spot where their arms are touching. 

Neither pulls away. 

“What?” Rosalie asks, smiling. 

Bella looks up, smiles back, and lets her gaze drop to those cherry-red lips. “What, what?” 

Their mouths meet somewhere in the middle. 

  
  
  
  
  


and wonders if this is Rosalie’s move after all; to make her enemy want her in the worst way against the backdrop of small town high school life where sexuality does not, cannot, and will not contain shades of gray. Such a play would destroy Bella – not just in the election, but in everything.

Completely. Totally. 

And she’s fighting a smile when Rosalie kisses her, because yeah, she does get off on that shit. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  



	6. the seconds were consulted and a decision was made

When Rosalie says, “Do you mind if I stay?” she’s looking up at the stucco on the ceiling so Bella’s not privy to the scrunch of her face. Her voice, just now, sounded so pathetically desperate, and she’d give anything in the world to have a canyon open up underneath her. She’s not aiming for a night filled with snuggling and quoting “The ‘L’ Word” to each other – honestly, with her parents under the impression she’s sleeping over at Alice’s, and with Alice believing she’s spending the night being sexually unfulfilled by Garrett Hamilton (“Seriously, Rosie? You’re going to Garrett’s even after the  _ jizz in my pants _ conclusion to the magical evening that was Junior Prom?”), staying at Bella’s is nothing more than a logical conclusion. 

But, the tone of her voice dripped conversation hearts and Sapphic poetry. 

Fucking embarrassing. “I mean, it’s not an ‘I wanna cuddle’ thing – it’s a ‘your bed is really comfortable and I’m really lazy’ thing,” Rosalie tells her quickly. 

Their fingertips brush against one another’s before hesitantly and awkwardly twisting together. “Um, yeah that would be...it’s cool, I guess. My dad’s all about giving me space these days; I sent him out for tampons once and he hasn’t been the same since.” Bella quietly laughs. “He won’t even know you’re here.” 

Bella’s thumb lazily circles the back of Rosalie’s hand; Rose’s gaze drops from the stucco to the girl on her left and the small sigh of relief she’d been holding back breaks through the barrier of tongue and teeth. Bella’s staring at the ceiling, and even though Rose’s motives are cemented in logic (one hundred percent, goddammit), her facial expressions are betraying her like her voice, and Bella missed out on seeing what fear of rejection looks like on a Hale. 

Thank god for small favors. 

Awkward hand holding spawns into awkward spooning with a side helping of awkward conversation, and Rosalie bites the inside of her cheek, because she really,  _ really _ didn’t want to do this. Knowledge of Bella Swan was only supposed to go as far as,  _ passive aggressive _ ,  _ highly competitive _ ,  _ anal retentive _ ,  _ prone to blushing _ ,  _ has a birthmark on the inside of her right thigh _ ,  _ a fan of leaving hickeys _ . Rosalie shouldn’t know that since his divorce, Charlie Swan likes to spend a good majority of his time drinking in a boat and pretending like his daughter doesn’t exist (“I mostly take after my mom in the looks department, and he’s just so  _ bitter _ , I don’t think he can deal.”). Rosalie shouldn’t hate Renee Swan’s fucking face (“She met Phil on craigslist and took off for Flagstaff. He played for some Braves farm team way back when and thinks he’s hot shit ‘cuz they ask him to star in the local mattress outlet commercials”). 

Blissful ignorance should be the order of the day because Rosalie should not be lying here giving a dick about Bella’s rambling attempts to stave off uncomfortable silence. But she is and she does. She shares in Bella’s sadness over her father, and has to be talked out of texting  _ suck a fuck _ when she learns 168 characters make up the relationship Bella’s relationship with her mother. The thought of Swan being hurt is only appealing when she’s the one responsible. Someone else doing it? Christ, Rose’s stomach knots up so hard that vomiting and passing out starts looking like a certainty.

Because she’s here anyway, and she knows things she shouldn’t, Rosalie lets her arms tighten around Bella’s middle. She lets her nose fill with the scent of dulled strawberry shampoo and sweat that permeates Bella’s hair. She shares tales of her own lifegivers’ many shortcomings (“The ‘your daddy just likes sleeping in the basement’ lie is so laughable; you’d think they’d give it up already, but nope.”). They curl up for so long that Bella’s out cold, and Rose’s arm is heavy with the prickly irritation of a sleeping limb. She really, kind of likes (loves) feeling Bella breathing against her, so she suffers the funny pins and needles feeling, and is appropriately terrified. 

This is supposed to be logical, after all. There’s a reason why the body’s more sensible organs never serve as a poetic breeding ground for the stirrings of an emotional connection. 

At five thirty in the morning, a nic-fit requires Rosalie to detangle their limbs; she taps the ash of an American Spirit into the glass of water on the nightstand and strains to keep her attention on the slow burn of the cigarette paper. It probably would’ve worked out better if the TV glow wasn’t highlighting how cute Bella looks when she’s sleeping (lips slightly parted, brows knit like she’s deep in concentration). Now at just five minutes after six o’clock all stinging eyes and crumbling delusions, she’s got a sharpie in one hand and Bella’s note cards in the other; it really is a good speech, but personally she finds it lacking without all of the colorful interruptions. By the fourth reread, Rosalie’s grinning like mad at the desire to be the best of the best that drips from every line. Bella’s always been so passionate about coming out on top while Rose has only ever been passionate about making Bella turn red. 

She chuckles and the lamenting over logic stops. They’ve never been and what little of the concept their relationship contained had abandoned all hope the second Rose climbed through that window. But, even something as illogical as this lacks the right amount of gooey sap required to box all of her feelings away in her heart. Rosalie needs another organ (but, ‘my pancreas, it  _ burns _ ’ doesn’t sound quite right).

“Hey...”

“Hmm?” Bella stirs at the gentle prompting of Rosalie’s hand. “What’s up?” she asks, her voice raspy from sleep. 

One hand pulls the covers back while the other puts the sharpie in between Rosalie’s teeth. “Turn over on your back.” 

“What? What time is it?” Bella flops over, sighing heavy and frustrated while doing a frantic search for a clock with her eyes. Sleep addled synapses fire long enough for her to grab her cell phone from the nightstand. “We have to get up in less than an hour,” she groans. “What the fuck, Rose?” 

Rosalie shrugs and imbeds teeth prints in the body of the marker. “I’m bored.” 

“ _ You’re _ bored?” Bella scoffs. “Are you five?” She pauses, sniffs, “Why does my room smell like cigarettes?” 

Bella isn’t a fan of early rising. Rosalie shouldn’t know that either. 

Taking the sharpie out of her mouth, Rosalie says, “Lie down, Susie Sunshine.” A look of defiance flashes across her face, but Bella complies and Rosalie hovers over her hip. One hand presses against the skin to steady it, the other works the sharpie across it. 

“You woke me up so you could doodle?” The annoyed edge in her voice has dulled, and Bella sounds mostly amused. 

“Among other things,” is the reply and once she’s finished, Rosalie clicks on the lamp in order to admire her handiwork. 

“What is it?” Bella asks, straining to see. 

One hand juts out to stop Bella’s movement, the other draws an arrow through the blob on Bella’s hip. 

“That’s my liver,” Rosalie says. 

  
  



	7. to reload and keep firing. eventually someone will fall

  
  


Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer; know them biblically and you'll get all the answers. 

* * *

“The philosopher Lao Tzu once said...he said...god, what the fuck did he say?” 

Bella white knuckles either side of the sink, her head dropping in frustration. Perhaps it’s the echo in the girls’ bathroom that’s derailing her train of thought – being inundated with the sound of her voice bouncing off the walls could be making her woefully self conscious. It’s a bit like listening to your own voicemail message being played through a megaphone. 

She takes a deep breath, lifts her face up towards the mirror, steels her gaze (stopping to momentarily frown at the bags under her eyes), and tries again. 

“The philosopher Lao Tzu once said...” 

There’s laughter in the hall just outside the door, and Lao Tzu in all of his infinite wisdom and eternal peace is probably glaring down at her from atop a fluffy cloud in heaven, because Bella forgets it all and contemplates drowning herself in a toilet. 

This speech was perfect at five o’clock that morning. She knew it backwards and forwards then (she recited it backwards and forwards just to showoff); she’d studied the shapes her mouth formed around the words – her tongue tripping upwards, rearing back, or gently hitting her teeth – she’d practiced her cadence, messed around with where to put the emphasis, scratched things out and started over, all without giving a second glance at her note cards. Now just ten minutes away from unleashing the brilliance that will capture the hearts and minds of the Senior class (Yes. We. Can.), Bella’s fucking it all up with a tampon machine, and marker graffiti there to bear witness to her failure. 

She’s nervous. She’s pacing. The well-worn soles of her Vans occasionally squeak against the grimy tile and she’s starting to do that thing with her hair. 

There’s a flush, and a stall door creaks open. Bella’s feet keep moving, and her hand keeps clawing, but she’s still able to fix the pudgy Freshman that’s unwittingly stepped into her meltdown with a glare. 

“You got eye problems?” Bella snaps. 

“What? No, I just had to pee...” 

“Get. Out.” 

“Who made you the fucking gate keeper?” the girl snaps back, but leaves Bella all alone with her torment. 

She’s still pacing, now with several frightening scenarios playing through her mind, the lot of which include, “Is this really happening right now? What if I’m actually dreaming? Oh god, I’m sleeping through the most important day of my high school career” and, “What if I never remember what Tzu said? What if my entire memory has been wiped clean? Okay...name, Isabella Marie Swan. Date of birth...date of birth...date of birth...Jesus shit.” 

The tantrum loses steam before the prickling at the corners of her eyes can turn into tears and, “A leader is best when people barely know he exists, when his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say: we did it ourselves” pops back into Bella’s mind as though it’d been buried with loose change and gum wrappers underneath couch cushions. 

She feels happy and light. She has a good feeling about everything. 

But, while en route to the auditorium Bella stops to get those note cards out of her locker. 

Just in case. 

* * *

In the summer of her eleventh year of being, Renee convinced Charlie that sending Bella off to an arts camp would be an enriching and rewarding experience (at that time, Renee was still keen on hanging the millstones of broken and unrealized dreams around the neck of her daughter). Bella arrived just outside of Olympia knowing full well that her stick figures, though whimsical, were not going to be enough to squash homesickness and a growing inferiority complex. But, all was not lost. Oh no. Bella made fast friends with her bunkmate, Fi. She was a charming girl of thirteen with a Tennessee lilt, and a love of Edward Gorey, and she taught Bella how to French kiss one night behind the canteen. 

This fond memory is the reason Bella held onto her standard issue Camp Spring Lake t-shirt. It still fit, that shirt, and it was only mildly depressing her body hadn’t changed a whole lot since eleven. Last she remembered, it was hanging haphazardly from the top of the towering clothing heap in her hamper, so seeing Rosalie kicked back in her chair onstage, Camp Spring Lake written in block letters across her chest, is a shock that sends Bella tripping over her own two feet and straight into the back of Eric Yorkie. 

His smile is cheerful as he puts out his arms to steady her. “Whoa there, Bella. Trying to take out the competition, I see.” Eric jokes with those easy manners of his, and Bella tries to keep the fact her heart just stopped a secret. 

“Sorry,” she replies sheepishly. 

“Shake those nerves off, girl,” he says with an encouraging pat to her shoulder. “Picture everybody naked, it always works for me.” 

Bella’s up fourth, just behind Kate Pearson when the remaining seventy members of the graduating class are squirming with boredom in their seats and their eyes are starting to glaze over with thoughts of the lunch period. She climbs to her feet with purpose, with butterflies the size of bats banging around in her stomach, with her mind focused on counting the steps to the podium to keep from looking in Rosalie’s direction. Bella makes it; she shuffles her note cards, she clears her throat away from the microphone, and though her mind is screaming against it, she glances over her shoulder. 

Rosalie wears aloof so well. 

There’s a rush of saliva in her mouth while sweat beads across her upper, and Bella’s memory wants to relive her time spent freaking out in the bathroom earlier. All because of a bored look, that stupid t-shirt (and the indecent way it clings), and the myriad of reasons why Rosalie would want (and would want to display) anything that belongs to Bella to begin with. 

She swipes at her bangs just once – she may be shaking with the force it’s taking to not faint, but some habits die hard – and Bella looks at those note cards. Her head is foggy and she wants Lao Tzu to be proud so she reads, “The philosopher Lao Tzu once said, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates’...”

The laughter from the crowd rolls into Bella’s ears like a tidal wave, and the fog lifts allowing her to finally notice that the handwriting on the top card doesn’t belong to her at all. 

Her brain is beginning to tear at the seams, however the last thread of rationality digs its heels in and although Bella’s becoming dizzy from the potential threat of a fit, she catches the eye of the science teacher, Mr. Molina, and begs for a moment. She catches Rosalie’s eye, as well. A mistake that will cost Bella two weeks of detention and the election, because Rosalie, wearing a smile that says “I unhinge my jaw to eat my food”, blows her a kiss and Mr. Molina has to drag Bella offstage kicking and swearing. 

* * *

Alice enters the bathroom curiously and cautiously. She has a speech prepared; it’s a variation on one she’s used many times before when it comes to dealing with the monster that is Bella and Rosalie. It bends to fit whatever bit of fuckery the two are in at the time (“Bella, I don’t know why she cut up your costume”, “Bella, I don’t know why she took your reed”, “Bella, I don’t know why she threw that ball at your eye”), but the meat of the speech is well worn like the soles of a comfortable shoe.

A sniff rings out from behind the door of the third stall, and Alice stops and rests a hand against it. “I am so,  _ so _ sorry, Bella. I don’t know why she ruined your speech, and at this point you have absolutely no reason to believe me, but I swear when you get to know her, Rose is sweet and capable of human behavior. I don’t know why she has it in for you, but I promise I’ll talk to her, because this shit’s gotten way old.”

Alice may have to repeat it, but she does keep her promise time and time again. Her “what the fuck is up with you?” inquiry is always met with a grunt and an abrupt subject change from Rosalie. 

There’s a hiccup in response and with concern etched in every line of her little, pointy face, Alice’s knuckles tap three times on stall. “Bella? Are you okay?”

The hinges creak and groan as the door swings open, and she gasps at the sight of Bella’s tear streaked face. Alice’s arms stretch wide, because after the speech comes the big comfort hug, but Bella’s shoulders begin to shake and it quickly becomes apparent she’s not crying.

Bella’s laughing. Hysterically.

Alice blinks, clearly confused. “Are you...sane?”

Bella throws her arms around Alice’s neck and says with total happiness, “Al, I’m perfect.”

“Oh-kay, perfect is good, I think. Except...I’m feeling a little like I’ve wandered into a Lynch film here, so do you wanna maybe clear some things up for me?” Alice asks. 

“Clear what up?” 

“Bella, your speech was just totally ruined. I mean, I came in here with the idea that I’d be spending the rest of the day steering you clear of sharp objects, instead you look...” Alice pulls back in order to give Bella a discerning stare, “you look like it’s Christmas morning.” 

Bella lets her go with a shrug. “I just find it funny, that’s all.”

“Find what funny?”

“Rosalie’s... desperation,” Bella says after a slight hesitation. “I dunno, maybe she didn’t get enough hugs growing up or something. Whatever her damage is, the jealousy and the need for attention it’s become…hilarious.” 

Alice’s head curiously tilts to the side. “And that’s it?” 

“Yup.” 

“And nothing else?”

“Nope.” 

“Hm,” Alice says and pays careful attention to the way Bella’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Alright, well the laughing is definitely better than the screaming.”

“What can I say,” Bella starts with a grin, “I’ve got a new perspective about this whole thing. But, thanks for coming to talk me down. I’m gonna be fine, Al, really.”

“Bella,” Alice says when her best friend is half way to the bathroom door. “Didn’t you go to Camp Spring Lake?” 

Bella laughs loudly, uncomfortably. “Yeah, a long time ago.” 

* * *

Rosalie, with equal parts condescension and affection, refers to Bella as, “My Little Type A” when they head towards Rose’s car. Some time after their sentence was handed down by Mr. Molina, they give an Oscar worthy performance in the nurse’s office to get out of the rest of the day’s classes (“My dad thought he was being sweet by making my lunch today. I think I’ve got food poisoning”/ “I ate off her plate”), and take off together. It’s an inconspicuous escape; the senior parking lot is far enough away from the P.E. track that no one could have possibly made out their figures or spotted the way they allowed their pinkies to touch. 

Now Rosalie’s car sits just off a backwoods dirt road – the sort of place where the smell of earth and the stench of farm animal clings to the air – with its windows clouded from their breaths. 

“Give me your hand.” 

The entire ride, Bella worried over her exchange with Alice in the bathroom. In the past, she was able to hold off the giddy mania that tends to follow confrontations with Rose until she’s far away from concerned, prying eyes. The laughter, the euphoria – they were easy to dismiss as a love for revenge, but Rose started sleeping over every other night and they talk on the phone sometimes (about nothing, mostly since they’re not ready for the everything part); lying to herself just doesn’t hold the appeal it once did. Still, personal revelations didn’t make Bella gung-ho for public ones, and there’s a come to Jesus session with Alice looming on her horizon. 

It made her throat lump up and her guts knot. She let Rosalie smooth and detangle it all with her mouth. 

The ridges in the backseat dig into Bella’s bare knees; it’s a mild discomfort that’s eased away by the picture Rosalie’s painting – a hand pressed to the glass, back arched, legs splayed, and that shirt (Bella’s shirt) riding high on her stomach. 

“Your hand, Rose.” Bella’s got a little authoritative edge to her voice (revenge couldn’t ever hope to come close to being as sweet as the power held in hearing your name moaned to the heavens), and Rosalie obeys. She takes Rosalie’s fingers and guides them into completely spreading the girl apart before her, and Bella says, “Stay just like that” before dropping her face back down between those thighs. 

One night when her parents thought she was helping Alice through a boy related crises, and Alice thought she was busy fucking around with some much too old for her dude in Port Angeles, Rosalie asked Bella what she tasted like. 

It was said in all seriousness (she could be terribly narcissistic on occasion), but Rose did have enough humility to blush and take a sudden, deep interest in watching the smoke from her cigarette billow out of the window, so Bella couldn’t help wanting to indulge her. 

Bella’s mouth opened to give an answer and promptly shut itself. 

Rosalie is not peaches and cream, or a nice fruit tart. But how could you tell someone, if darkness and light could swirl together and if it could glisten on your fingertips or coat your tongue they would be it; that if this unholy concoction could have an aroma, it would be akin to the muskiness between their thighs? How does one say, “You taste like wickedness and virtue. You are everything that’s wrong, but so right. You are secondhand smoke. You are napalm”? 

You just couldn’t. Unless you enjoy sounding like a cooz. 

Bella shrugged it off with a smile. “Fish tacos,” she said. 

Rosalie playfully shoved her shoulder. “Can you be for real? Like, two seconds is all I’m asking.” 

“I’ve never been more real,” Bella snickered. “You should really take a stroll on a Summers Eve if you catch my drift.”

Those blue eyes rolled heavenward, but Rosalie was still grinning and Bella leaned over in order to bring their faces closer. She wrapped her fingers around the base of Rosalie’s neck with one hand while the other dug into the carpet for leverage. She let her tongue mingle with Rose’s and gave her a diluted sample of her own sin and godliness. 

When she broke the kiss, Bella told Rosalie words could never really do her justice anyway, and Rosalie socked her in the shoulder again for daring to be sentimental, but it was already too late. Because Rosalie’s eyes were her downfall; they housed the tell. She’s a seasoned professional at aloofness, but the heady atmosphere aided in dropping her guard. Her heart. Her liver. Her everything. Exposed and undoing seven years of masked intentions before she could think to blink it away. 

Bella wanted to laugh, not out of cruelty, but out of relief. Who knew (keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer; know them biblically and you’ll get all the answers)? 

She wondered if Rose would ever dare to look at her that way again without hiding it. If there would ever be movie dates, or family dinners, or gift exchanges on all of the important, Christian holidays. She hoped there would and for once didn’t try to trick herself into believing otherwise, but for all of this newfound mobility, they were still caught in a cycle and it was doubtful either possessed the power necessary to stop it. 

Bella rested her forehead against Rosalie’s, her heart slamming in her chest. “Someone’s going to get really hurt.” 

“That’s the point,” Rosalie told her, voice thick with all of the things she’s continuing to avoid saying despite having her confidence betrayed by her eyes.

And Bella gave her a rueful smile, because she knew the push was coming, and she would be expected to (she’d have to) pull. 

“Yes. Yes, it is.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: “Bella/Rosalie hate sex”. 


End file.
